User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Twelve Stars of Taneth: Chapter 13
Chapter 12 Only two more parts after this! Going to be honest, did not expect to get this far. Thanks for reading. By the way, with this blog, Twelve Stars hit the 148 page bench mark, about 75000 words. Chapter 13: A Memory of Light Aleera rode out to meet her adversary. King Lhotun of Sentinel was man in his mid-forties, with dark hair graying at the sides. He wore a splendorous oufit of various greens and blues over a chain mail coat, and a gilded mail coif topped with a crown on his head. He was tall, well-built, and handsome, about what you’d expect the most powerful monarch in Hammerfell to be. Riuh, King of Hegathe, was like a discount version of Lhotun. Shorter, smaller in frame and with more fat, and had a plainer face that was more inoffensive than good-looking. Even what he wore reflected that. His outfit was simply a single shade of green, and was more form-fitting than Lhotun’s. He hung back a bit, allowing Lhotun to take the lead. Aleera stood at the front of her party, the assembled kings of Skaven, Dragonstar, Elinhir, and Rihad some distance behind her on horseback. Conner and Raine were closer, at her flanks. The leaders of the two armies had ridden out into the very middle of what would be the battlefield. The hardpan desert extended around them, air quivering in the heat. Storm clouds churned in the distance. Lhotun spoke first, cantering his horse closer to her’s so he wouldn’t have to shout over a large distance. “I thought this was to be a meeting of kings. Where is your brother?” Aleera smirked. “King Hakim decided his time could be better spent than on this.” Lhotun glared at her, not appreciating the slight. “We come—“ “Skip to the point, Lhotun.” Aleera interrupted, cutting him off. “Taneth didn’t ask for this war. We cleaned up our house. My men will meet yours on the field tomorrow, and to the victor the spoils. Is there any more that should be said than that?” “It is courtesy that two enemies should meet under a flag of truce and speak.” “You’re testing my resolve.” Aleera guessed. “You’re wondering if you’ve mis-stepped by bringing so many soldiers across such a distance, hoping for an advantage, only to get caught out in the desert.” “Have I mis-stepped?” Lhotun asked idly, making conversation. “I think you mis-stepped the instant you took up Gilane’s cause. Tidon was taken care of, and the royal family was restored. It’s a pointless fight.” “Ah, but it was still invaded, and I am still obligated to obey the treaties. Besides, this is the perfect opportunity to curb Taneth’s power.” “Or make it invincible once I destroy you.” Aleera replied, just as idly. She glanced at her nails. Lhotun frowned, leaning forward, folding his arms on the back of his gelding’s neck. “You know the funny thing about pride? It’s worthless. The only thing the benefits from inflated self-worth is your ego. And I’ve always enjoyed taking prideful men down a few notches.” Aleera rolled her eyes as at the ‘men’ bit, but didn’t let it distract her. “Looked in the mirror recently? I see someone who could use that.” “Maybe. But I didn’t think I could get away with invading a sovereign nation.” “Isn’t that what you’re doing right now, King Lhotun?” He quirked a grin at her. “I’m restoring order to the province.” “Ah. I didn’t realize.” Lhotun spat into the sand, and sat back in the saddle, rubbing his palms together. “Will I see you in the field tomorrow?” “Doubtful. What, would you come looking for me? It wouldn’t be much of a fair fight.” Lhotun cocked his head. “That’s not what I heard. I was under the impression you are well-versed in combat.” “I meant for you.” “Ha.” He stated without amusement. “Then perhaps it’s well and good we do not meet.” Aleera nodded, then said. “I will retire. Farewell.” Lhotun nodded back, turning his animal away, but paused. “You are not going to beg me to return home, for my own good?” Aleera shook her head. “I would only get a refusal. Besides, as I said, you’re going to be destroyed.” The King frowned again, and then rode off, Riuh joining him as the returned to their camp. Aleera motioned with two fingers over her right shoulder, summoning Raine. The assassin coaxed her horse forwards. “What?” “Sneak into King Riuh’s tent tonight. Steal a pair of his underclothes and put them in Lhotun’s tent.” Raine raised a brow. “Uh, why?” “Better if you didn’t know.” Aleera said, then returned towards her own warcamp. In the morning, all the kingdoms of Hammerfell would fight. What Aleera could for was a speedy victory. If Lhotun’s defeat was absolute, she could consolidate all her forces, and even had his and Riuh’s to her own. An army that size, under one leader, could easily hold of the Daedra in its entirety. This would be solving two problems at once. That, of course, was a hopeful perspective. The casualty rate would be high on both sides, likely. And a chance of total victory was slim. This would probably be the first battle in a long and bloody war that would consume all of Hammerfell. That, stacked on top of the Daedra crisis, would mean absolute disaster for the province. What had Tidon been thinking, when he’d caused this? Aleera could see the brilliance in his plan though, even if it was heavily flawed. The same idea of creating a single, massive provincial armed force to combat the Daedra could also be used to establish control over all of Hammerfell, under one leader. An empire of Redguards, like Yokuda of old. That was an outcome of tomorrow as well. If Aleera could find some way to prevent the fight tomorrow, she would. But she couldn’t see a way. Her enemies didn’t what a way out. Hell, Aleera, was sort of curious to see what she could do with a victory her, what power it would bring her. She commanded this army. And if she, by chance, ended up commanding every army, what did that make her? What did you call the person who led the most powerful army in the world? The answer seemed obvious. So it would be one final battle for the fate of Hammerfell. Final in that either it would be the last battle they’d have to fight amongst themselves, or that it would be the battle that would spell the final doom for the province. Dramatic, yes, but highly appropriate. ---- Crimson was empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. He rolled the word around in his head, tossed it back and forth like a good game of catch. Emp-tee. Empty. E-M-P-T-Y. Empty. There was something important about that word. Real important. He just had to put his finger on it. What had Diagna said? Twenty men enter a bar on a Wednesday, with all the lights off. Nope not that. The Shehai fills you, and you are still with that energy. You cannot give it form. That is what draws the Adversary. The Shehai is a source of complexity, and you are full of it. And your skill makes you worthy of an Adversary. The Adversary, its sole goal, is to see you beaten. Closer. “The spirit-sword? I know that I can’t do form it. Master Ishien can, and Daireg could, but I can’t.” Crimson had said. Diagna then replied: “That’s because they understood Anu and Padomey, the push and pull. Ishien himself empties his thoughts, feelings, and burdens, he feeds them all to a flame and finds the void. His mind is the sword’s edge. Daireg was empty. He had no feelings or burdens. The reason he was such a skilled swordsman was because nothing held him back.” Empty. Feed your thoughts, feelings, and burdens to the flame. Empty. You must have no feelings and burdens. You must hold nothing back. Empty. Crimson was empty. Hollow inside. He was crushed. He felt nothing. There wasn’t light here in this windowless cell, nor was there wind to clear out the dank air, but Crimson could feel the Shehai. It was there, thrilling through him and alongside him. A rushing river of the richest light, the novelty of life in its purest form. It had always been there, waiting for him, patient as a mother. All he had ever needed to do was reach out and take what was his. How hadn’t he seen this before? How had he been incapable of what should’ve been so easy? Reaching for the Shehai now would be as simple as breathing. Empty of anything, the Shehai filled him, and he and it and everyone and everything were one. The cell grew bright as a sword filled his hand, first just a hilt, but then a blade extended from the haft, illuminating the cell with it’s brightness. Crimson turned his head to look at it, shackled to the ground as he was. The sword was a piece of art. The blade was curved, almost like a crescent, and incredibly fine, no thicker than the width of his thumb at its widest point. The design was impractical, but Crimson knew this made it incredibly quick and gave him better wrist strength. A steel blade shaped like this would shatter upon its first strength. Crimson doubted anything could break the Shehai. And it could probably break anything. He lifted his the hand holding his new weapon from the floor enough to flick his wrist, bringing the blade down on the chain that was restricting his other arm. The metal snapped like it was nothing. Crimson reversed grips, holding the sword blade down, and used the Shehai’s razor edge to snap shackles on his forearm. Crimson stood in the cell, wrists still cuffed with chain links dangling from them. A few expert cuts with the Shehai freed them completely. Now to— His eyes were drawn to Shayera, still curled up against the wall. He dispelled the Shehai, hurrying to her side. “Shayera!” He whispered, shaking her. No response. Crimson took her arm and rolled her onto her back, so that she was facing the ceiling inside of the wall. Blood coated her up and down. The wounds from the sword fragments hadn’t been healed completely, had broken open again, and where bleeding. She’d already lost a fair amount of blood. Crimson considered calling for Jasmin, but immediately banished the idea. He had no idea what she’d do. She might attack him, seeing he’d broken free. She might let Shayera die. But Shayera was going to die anyway, right? Crimson reached out for the Shehai, and a rush of energy ran through him, as wild and as uncontrollable as a flood. Crimson was aware that, had he not spent his entire life training in the Way of the Sword, the amount of energy the Shehai put at his hand could possibly injure him, even kill him was he not careful. Brimming with power, Crimson laid a hand on Shayera’s arm, and forced the energy through her. It passed out of Crimson like a current, but yet remained an extension of him. The Shehai couldn’t pass through Shayera without his help—she was still very much a creature bound to feelings and thoughts. The only reason Crimson wasn’t in complete panic over his daughter being near death was because of the near perfect calm accessing the Shehai brought him. Through this extension of himself, Crimson knew where Shayera was wounded the worst, what exactly was killing her. It was like he was viewing a picture in his mind eye, the picture being Shayera’s well-being, and each wound was a blemish on this picture. Using the same energy he’d extended into her, Crimson sealed her wound, slowly flooding her with the Shehai, binding her tightly to life again. The Shehai ran through everything, not as the Spirit-Sword, but as a life force. Some aspect of it was always there. And with Crimson’s unfettered access to the Shehai, he took great gulps of the life-giving energy and used it to restore Shayera’s soul to a perfect whole. Satisfied, Crimson stepped back, letting the Shehai drain from him, and nearly fainted as blood rushed to his head. He collapsed against the wall to steady himself. The effort had taken a lot out of him, and he had already been exhausted to begin with. Evidently, using the Shehai hid his exhaustion and weakness, but the price was that it would come back in full and hit him like a truck when he released it, not to mention that overusing the Shehai drained him as well. Probably another way I can kill myself. Crimson thought drily. Use sword magic ‘til the sheer strain of it wears me out. He supposed it was no use worrying about it now. Crimson figured his chancing of dying within the next twenty minutes were pretty good anyway, so whether he was shortening his life by using too much of this new power didn’t really matter to him. At the moment, Crimson’d take any advantage he could get. Stepping up to the cell bars, Crimson summoned the Spirt-Sword in his hand again and made short work of them. The sword cut through steel like it was butter, or paper, or anything else that was cut real easily. Crimson made his way through the damp corridors of Jasmin underground lair. They were narrow, but brief, and he found stairs to the surface in no time. The stair deposited him in a wooden shack, composed of hastily nailed together planks of wood. He heard Jasmin speaking outside. Crimson crept across the shack’s dirt floor, around a table covered with hastily scrawled notes and diagrams and whatever other stuffs mages wrote, to the front door hanging on hinges composed of rope. He pushed it open, and slipped outside, careful not to draw Jasmin’s eye. The sky was thundering. Cracks of lightning shown in the gray clouds. Lightning struck the ground every once in a while in the distance, amazing to see, like a beacon of light, given the desert’s sheer emptiness. Only the bodies of the villagers from Santaki, the ones Jasmin had used as soulless vessals to bind the Adversary to Nirn remained. Jasmin stood in a ritual circle of stones twenty paces away. Her back was to Crimson. One hand was extended outwards, towards a doorway to Oblivion that had been pulled into existence. A shimmering, fiery wound in the air, the gate looked into some portion of the Deadlands. Crimson wouldn’t know, he’d never vacationed that way. She was muttering something, some kind of incantation? Was she trying to summon the Adversary? After she’d double-crossed it? That was a horrible idea. “Jasmin!” Crimson called out, stepping forwards. He distracted her, catching her attention. She turned slightly, surprised at his appearance. No anger. If anything, there was concern. “What are you doing?” She shouted at him. Oh, nope, definite anger there. “Not letting you do something you’ll regret. Or, I’ll regret.” “You idiot!” Jasmin shrieked, animated in her movements, and Crimson was taken a little aback by it. She was crazy, but he didn’t realize she was this crazy. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” “Stopped you being evil?” Jasmin opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly froze. The desert grew dark. She glanced back and forth worriedly, fear written in her features. Crimson frowned, watching the world to Oblivion, as Jasmin whirled towards it, and with a closed fist, the portal snapped shut. She seemed to relax marginally, still tense. Crimson was watching her, one figure in a desert empty for miles around, and didn’t understand what had unnerved her so. “I think I stopped it.” Jasmin finally decided. Her shadow stood up. Crimson jolted, starting forwards, hands raised, trying to get her attention or get her to turn around, something, knowing he was too slow no matter what he did. “Jasmin!” He shouted to her. His daughter gave him a look of annoyance, and then got the message, turning her head. A shadowy blade was plunged through her back, and out her chest, as the Adversary took shape behind her. “A reward for services renders.” The creature declared in its distorted tone with all the emotion and inflection a rock might have. It wasn’t killing Jasmin because it was angry or felt betrayed, it was killing her because this was the consequence for her actions. Cause and effect, nothing more, nothing less. Jasmin’s dark features softened briefly in surprise and acceptance as she was ran through, before they went slack and she slid forwards off the blade, landing face down in the sand. Crimson watched it all, coming to halt, feeling… nothing. The Shehai coursed through him, filling every vein, filtering every thought, a calming hand on his nerves. “I thank you, Archer.” The Adversary, turning to him. “This is the third time you are responsible for my return to this realm.” He took stock of Crimson. “You accessed the Shehai. My purpose here is all but irrelevant. All but—I seek remuneration for previous defeats at your hands.” Crimson should hate this thing, be furious at it. He should want to scream and curse it, through himself bodily at it and try to kill it in a thousand different ways. But his rage was contained, leased. It was a small reminder at the edge of his awareness, just there to keep him sharp and focused without overtaking him. The Adversary gave a curious cock of its head, Crimson assumed it did this because it lacked a face to express itself, when he didn’t reply. “You’re welcome ta seek it all you want.” The Archer finally said. The Spirit-Sword grew into existence, blooming like a kinda magic-sword-flower, resting comfortably in his right hand. The grip was perfectly tailored to ever groove in his palm. Crimson would never get over the awe at the splendor of this sword. “I sense there will be no tricks this time.” The Adversary noted. “Nope. Only gonna give you the worst noogie ya ever had and then call it a day.” “Then, Archer.” The Adversary intoned, turning to the side, shadows near rising like fog and coalescing into a shape. “There is one last medium I have yet to defeat you in.” A stallion fashioned of smoke formed next to the Adversary, it’s shape as muddle and indistinct as his, and large enough to accommodate his height. The Adversary swung a leg up over the shadow-horse, greatsword resting on its shoulder. Entropy looked over at Crimson imperiously. The horse reared up and neighed fiercely, smoke billowing from its nose. Crimson grinned slyly. “I think I’m gonna like this one.” He brought his fingers to his lips, and shrill whistle cut through the air. In a moment, Whistles was there in blur of speed and motion, summoned on account of his supernatural hearing or senses—Crimson had never quite figured out how that worked. The unicorn stallion was almost as large as the Adversary’s horse. And probably faster too. Crimson leapt, slapping a palm on Whistle’s flank to launch himself into the saddle, and landed with his hands on the reins. The Shehai made him feel like a man of forty, thirty. He took deep swigs of the power, like it was a bottle of rich whiskey. That analogy worked two ways, he’d probably feel as bad the next day for drawing so much of the Shehai as he would for chugging whiskey. Lightning spiked the ground, closer now than it had been. The hardpan desert was all around them. Final battle for something, Crimson figured. The world, maybe? If the Adversary won, who said he had to leave? Hadn’t that been his plan of teaming up with Jasmin? She took advantage of the Oblivion Crisis to permanently draw him into Nirn? However had she gotten it into her head that it was a good idea to bring the force that was currently destroying the universe to her home? “You have had a hard life, Archer.” The Adversary acknowledged. “Good thing it is now over.” His horse bayed, rearing up onto its hind legs to turn, and speed across the desert, churning up dust in its wake. “Oh, ya wanna play?” Crimson murmured to himself, snapping Whistles’ reins, and the stallion lurched into action, powerful muscles flexing and then releasing as it shot off like a bolt out of a crossbow. “Alright then, let’s play.” The white horse took off after the black underneath a gathering storm. END OF PART 13 Chapter 14 Category:Blog posts Category:Stories Category:Twelve Stars of Taneth